Under Attack!

There are many reasons I dislike the city. Urban pests now top that list.

You see the thing is that I really have no problem with mice. In fact, I find them to be quite adorable little creatures. When I was little I once saved a poor mouse from the jaws of death (i.e. my sister's cat) and put the little shocked thing in a box until it felt better and then set it free in the forest. Apparently such consideration to their kind was not enough to appease the mouse gods, because I am currently, at 6:15 in the morning, under seige by what seems to be a torrent of little mousy bastards, but could quite possibly be just one particularly nervy little runt.

So why am I awake at 6:15 in the morning, and not only awake but feeling compelled to sit and write out my sorrows on a computer? Because these mice are not only crawling around my room being incredibly noisy, but one actually had the audacity to crawl into my bed - forcing me, yelping in surprise and disgust, out of it. This mouse has crossed the line, I say. CROSSED THE LINE!

To make matters worse, I have had the worst sleep in the history of the world. First there's the fact that I can here the little mouse (or mice) running all around my room, crawling in my garbage can, munching on this and that, leaving me to speculate what millions of things I might find to have been nibbled on in the morning. I told myself to just ignore it and go to sleep, hoping the furry little monkey would find its way to the lovely meal of peanut butter that just happens to be situated in just what I once saved that poor mouse from long ago - the jaws of death (ie a mouse trap).

Comforted by this thought, I had nearly drifted to sleep when I began a shallow dream of two spiders crawling around on a box in my room when I realized that the dream was actually referring to something insect-like crawling on my neck, which presently started some kind of strange vibration dance. I was thus rudely jerked from my near slumber in order to shake the thing off, and watched it go crawling behind my bed as my instincts were not yet intact enough to smash it to smitherenes.

This time it was even harder to go back to sleep, because on top of the little mouse ravishing my room I now had to deal with the thought of this potential spider crawling back onto me and continuing his vibration dance, which in my sleepy state I felt sure was some crazy way of sending spider eggs into my skin from which trillions of tiny spiderbabies would be hatched at a later date. This is an example of why urban legends are dangerous things.

The ironic thing is that I have a few times slept under the stars with only a sleeping bag to protect me from the elements and been less disturbed by creepy crawlies than I have been tonight, in my bed, in a house in a huge city. That is just not fair!

I don't know when I will ever feel safe to return to my bed, but it definitely will not happen this morning. I may as well do some of the pages upon pages of readings I have to do for tomorrow.

Yawn. I hate mice.

Toronto poems

On Bathurst

On Bathurst everything is busy.
I have an apartment here, just down the road from
Shining Honest Ed’s super duper discount store.
We sit on the roof and drink beer
Watch the CN tower blink into the smog
And talk about the philosophy of sex.
We are students, after all.
What else would we do?
Our bottle collection is impressive
And we have mice.

Toronto has many interesting sites to see
A dirty man on the streetcar has steely sneaky eyes
And tells me and two strangers that his friend
Started a boat fire at Ontario Place.
“All the boats are burning”
His eyes are deadpan and we are not sure
Whether to laugh or to believe.

Just North of Ulster there is a parking meter
With a pizza crust shoved in the coin slot
Who thinks of that?

The Black Ghost

I had a dream last night that I saw a black ghost from the road. Though the friends I was traveling with told me the ghost was frequently seen, ghosts have never appeared to me and I never thought they would. I saw it clearly and that was shocking to say the least. It caused me to falter in my step, to stand agog in wonder and fear, it caused me to hallucinate. It caused my heart to race and my shoulders to tense.

It’s my theory that dreams replicate the dominant emotion one is feeling in everyday life, but attach that feeling to an abstract conception. The ghost in my dream is the embodiment of my current fears, and I reacted to it as I react every day to the stresses in my life. The difficulty breathing; the avoidance of truth; the shock.

The thoughts that dominate my life revolve around moving back to Toronto, paying for school, my new apartment, new roommates, new atmosphere, new classes and starting a new life, once again. About what to do after this year, when I’ve graduated. The future is a huge unknown and - like the ghost - it excites me to no end and frightens me to death at the same time.

The black ghost represents the many things I feel that I am facing I didn’t expect to be there but deep down knew would appear. Like love, and falling into it. More than anything else, for me the ghost is love. Like the ghost, love appears unexpectedly. It’s something I’ve never quite believed in, though part of me always thought it would be true. It’s something I don’t want to deal with. It’s something I want to avoid. But I can’t ignore it, and its presence is haunting me. I’m also afraid that it is just as much of a phantom in its nature as the ghost – unreliable, appearing and disappearing in front of my eyes, completely beyond my control. I am afraid of the ghost, and I am equally afraid of love. They both entice me but also seem to prophecy my doom.

I am afraid of the black ghost of my dreams and its image is haunting me.

Cinque Terre, outside Riomaggiore

The harbour at Riomaggiore

Backpacking Europe - second post

The stone pathway is big enough for two vehicles to squeeze carefully by one another, but very few care to do so. It is mainly for pedestrians, and snakes its way up from the harbour that has been scratched into the rocky cliffs, then up through the town, until finally leaving for the green hills and well-tended gardens of the mountainside. Old, tanned Italian women with leathery skin and sun-squinted eyes cross this street to greet one another, and burly shopowners lift out boxes of impossibly bright fruit onto it - cherries, lemons (grown in the garden up the street), and shiny tomatoes still on their vines. An oil painting waiting to be captured on canvas.

The street is flanked on either side by brightly coloured buildings that blend so well with the sea and hills and sky that they might have grown there naturally, or else their builders had the Medittaranean so deep in their souls that when they went to build, it came out in the form of these beautiful, smooth, colourful buildings. Here there is no rush or feeling of desire for industrialness or production. Mary smiles peacefully over the town from many mini monuments on the walls of the houses, and her soft eyes and hands held palm-upward seem to encourage the inhabitants to take life slowly. Not that they need any more encouragement to do so, as the blanketing warmth of the sun and the wind, heavily scented with sea and flowers, make it the idea of rushing an alien notion.

The church sits on the hillside among the greenery, backed by a lush mountain and perfect blue sky as if to say "I'm here when you need me, but take your time." Its bells chime on the hour. Here in the sleepy village of Riomaggiore, on the Medittaranean Coast in Italy, people know how to live. They have it all right, I think. Good food, warm sun, family, and simple, unpretentious faith. A beautiful setting. What else do you need?

Backpacking Europe - first post

June 1, 2006

Stephanie and I are just now on a train going from La Spezia to Parma. We will then go from Parma to Bologna, and Bologna to Venice. We got up this morning at 7 in order to catch the bus from the camp we are staying at - high in the cliffs overlooking the Meditteranean - into Riomaggiore. Riomaggiore is a tiny Italian town: one of five fishing villages which cling to the cliffs along the south-east coast. They cater a good deal today to the hordes of tourists - many young backpackers like ourselves - who flock to the cliffs every summer for the chance to hike in one of the most beautiful regions of the world. But they still have a strong local small-town feel. Among the backpacks and cameras are men lifiting cement blocks onto trucks, old ladies picking dead buds off their impressive flowers and gardeners tending to trees drooping from the weight of their bright yellow lemons. Italian words fly around with the emphatic lyricism typical to the speakers of that language.

Looking out the window now I am taken aback by how striking the scenery is. I can't believe people are lucky enough to live in this paradise. Huge cliffs, bright blue Medittaranean Sea and massive mountains, covered in deep green forests, fading into the background. All of this against the bluest of blue skies. It seems like the sun is always shining here. The clouds are low and impossibly white and fluffy, and everywhere are wildflowers - purple, yellow. Delicate red poppies sprout up between the railway tracks and at the side of the road. They face the sun and, like everything else here, reflect the essence of beauty and vitality. Even the buildings contribute with smooth colourful walls and flowers that protrude from every corner. Palm trees, cacti...it is all so overwhelming. The landscape is alien, and brings to it a whole new level of impressiveness. During my travels I always think back to home and think that it is still the most beautiful place on earth. But here in Cinque Terre, and South of France, la vie est belle: life is beautiful!

The best part, though, is being here with my sister. She is sitting across from me looking the same as she has since we were 5 and 7 - pencil resting gently against her lips, her brow slightly furrowed, staring intently at the puzzle book in her lap. I don't think Steph could live without a pencil and erasure.

Back to the trip. Paris was grand, although it was possibly the quickest tour of the famous city in world history. Eiffel Tower - check. Arc de Triomphe - check. Champs d'Elysees - check. Esplanade des Invalides - check. The Sacre Coeur was just behind our hostel, and we had a great view of it from our window. One evening we bought a baguette and some brie, and cherries and avocado, and had a snack on the green grass of the hill in front of the Sacre Coeur, with a view of all of Paris! Seeing the sites in Paris was great - it's a very exciting city. We were able to converse easily with the locals, since we both speak French. But it was also the most familiar-feeling city I've been to in Europe, and was very crowded with tourists.

Cannes was beachy and had palm trees. We got there the day after the film festival ended, which was good because it felt somewhat calm and relaxed, and wasn't too crazytouristy. We took a boat to the island and were completely alone for most of the time, exploring the shoreline, looking at the hills and white sailboats and generally soaking up the warm sun and relaxation of a truly summery day.

All this travelling is tiring, but we've seen some amazing places in a short time. Backpacking France and Italy with my sister - fantastique!